Stare Decisis
by FalseEyelashes
Summary: Stare decisis: Latin, to stand by things decided a reliance on precedent. The past dictates the present, and we are obliged to follow. We play connectthedots with humans and history alike and allow memory to shape the outcome. ChloeLex. Futurefic. AU.
1. Primus

**Stare Decisis**

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. I don't own _Smallville_ or the song lyrics preceding each chapter or any of the literary illusions made or quotes referenced. I don't own them and I'm really not attempting to claim otherwise. Let's leave the law out of this one, shall we?

**Rating: **R (adult themes, sex, violence, strong language)

**Summary: **Stare decisis: Latin, to stand by things decided; a reliance on precedent. The past dictates the present, and we are obliged to follow. We play connect-the-dots with humans and history alike and allow memory to shape the outcome. Chloe/Lex. Futurefic. AU.

**Author's Note: **What's there to say? This idea hit me out of nowhere and I haven't been able to put it to rest since then. So I decided to run with it. The summary isn't as explanatory as the word "summary" would insist upon it being. Pretty much, every time I adopt a fandom I feel obliged to write some sort of "epic." And this is my Chloe/Lex epic, my ambitious, grandiose attempt at telling their story. There is no real sense of time; there will be fifteen chapters, with none of it really going in chronological order. The story? Lex Luthor has been elected president. That is really the only way to summarize what is to come here. This is the story of his term in office, his turn to the darkside, so to speak, and where Chloe fits into any and all of this. It's messy and strangely organized, but I like it, and here's to hoping that you do as well. This first chapter is short; a prologue of sorts, and most chapters from here on out will be much lengthier. Alright, enough of the public service announcement. Please, do read, review, and enjoy. Thanks.

**/ \ /**

**primus**

I picture you in the sun wondering what went wrong  
And falling down on your knees, asking for sympathy  
And being caught in between all you wish for and all you seen  
And trying to find anything you can feel, that you can believe in

**/ \ /**

I don't know anymore  
What it's for  
I'm not even sure  
If there is anyone who is in the sun  
Will you help me to understand?

**/ \ /**

(I know I would apologize if I could see in your eyes  
'Cause when you showed me myself I became someone else)

- _In the Sun – Joseph Arthur_

**/ \ /**

**2016**

**/ \ /**

George Washington chopped down his father's cherry tree and later confessed, proffering fictious words of wisdom passed down through wooden teeth since the red, white and blue year of 1776: "I cannot tell a lie." John F. Kennedy pleaded with the nation to not ask what their country can do for them, but rather what they could do for their country, and subsequently botched a coup on Castro and had his brains splattered upon his fashion plate of a wife and the sunny Texas boulevard they rode upon. FDR, from a wheelchair and locked polio braces, let the nation know, that despite Japanese bombers, a Nazi vendetta and the crash of the stock market, the only thing we have to fear is fear itself. And the nation cheered and the populace thundered their zealous approval year after year after year.

Lex Luthor wonders which phrase and event will follow him through and past the grave and into the pages of seventh grade textbooks and elementary schools' perennial patriotic performances. If he's lucky, or especially good, he might even earn a holiday.

At the same time, Bill Clinton will be best remembered for "not" having sexual relations with that woman and William Howard Taft got stuck in a goddamn bathtub. But he knows, gut feeling and intuition, he's not headed down that path.

How do you know where it all will end if you don't even understand where it began?

The year is 2016. And as expected, Lex Luthor has just won the presidential race for the newly reinvented Republican Party, which, come a year and a day or two's time will possess a terrifyingly ironic ring to its definition.

The flashbulbs pop and the American flag beckons behind him, Lex Luthor on stage, election night, a stretching crowd before him. .

Time stands still for no man. But in the movie of his life, this part plays in slo-mo.

Time stands still for no man. But as the flashes of cameras wink his way, ambiguous shadowed faces, eyes bright, a collage of red, white and blue, his right hand rising up in a wave – it all seems to slow. The sounds echo, the lights are brighter.

A flash of bright lights and with a painted grin and a bright red tie, he wonders how many households are watching him right now.

Red, white and blue balloons descend from the ceiling, confetti, glitter, all intermixing with the thunderous crowd and booming generic soundtrack. He thinks they might be playing "Born in the USA." He's not sure. It's hard to hear above the patriotic hysteria below him.

If he ever had to find a word to capture the moment, 'amplified' would come to mind. The microphone clipped on his suit, just near the flag gracing his lapel, allows his voice to reach decibel levels of falling bombs and roaring trains. The television screen behind him illuminates the arena, his face, his frame, visible to those all the way in the cheap seats, the last row, waving miniature flags he will never see. He thinks George Orwell, but rather than shudder, his smile grows a little more genuine.

This changes everything.

He used to always wonder why John D. Rockefeller never ran for office. He already owned the industry, the land; had the entire fucking country in his back pocket, tucked between a gold money clip and a hundred dollar bill.

And, yes, George Orwell is still echoing through his mind, his ears, and he can hear it, his words, as clearly as he can see them in his mind's eye: He who controls the past controls the future. He who controls the present controls the past.

A man might not be able to stop the world from spinning. But with a little sleight of hand and a flick of the wrist, he can send it turning on its axis, whipping past, toward the other way.

Hands clasp his own, blank-faced politicians, shaking on the promise of something little more than ambiguous, something cloudy, something that makes him think of days long past.

He can see it now: Blonde head, lips drawn, inquisitive smirk, bright eyes and it's been – what? – Four years? Three, since he's seen her last? And there had been a time, a time reaching back farther than that, when her life had been about term papers and drunken frat boys with heavy hands and glassy eyes and he had been composed of business acquisitions and cold, drafty boardrooms, fucking various brunettes while keeping the girlfriend, his girlfriend, on the side, safe, in a trophy case next to all the other things he owned for face value and in reality would probably never touch.

A strange smile quirks his lips. He still kept her on his side. The press loved it and she photographed well and there wasn't a speck of dirt anyone could ever dig up on her.

A red balloon pops near his head, and his mind is still on that blonde head, breaching twenty, about to leave Met U. He had run into her randomly, end of the workday, tired, burnt out, and she looked something akin to the same. They had a drink together, which somehow became four and another chapter to file away in the missteps of their lives.

She had asked, breathless and unsure and he had wondered what it could possibly mean that she wasn't trying to hide from him. "Where do we go from here?"

He had answered with one word: "Up."

And now, Lana, his wife, clutching his arm, a nearly manic grin contorting his wife's face, he wonders if Chloe is watching this, watching from her apartment in Georgetown, mouthing obscenities, damning the world. Damning him.

He wonders if this is up, or if there is still higher to climb.

**/ \ /**

It is a cold day in November. Biting wind and freezing rain. It is a cold day in Washington DC and as his men escort him to his armored car, flashbulbs still sparking, a blinding blur, like standing close to the sun, staring into it, he wonders for a second if he's gone down rather than up. Just a second of self-doubt, a second of self-doubt he knows would have turned into a sentence had he married the blonde.

The car starts up with a gentle purr and he holds his wife's slender hand within his own, the diamond sparkling from her fourth finger, lights from the car's interior catching it.

It is a cold day in November; it is a cold season in hell.

The year is 2016. And Lex Luthor – former club kid, drug addict, reckless driver, playboy, business exec, whipping boy – is president.

The next day Chloe Sullivan is out of a job.

**/ \ /**


	2. Like radium

**Stare Decisis**

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. I don't own _Smallville_ or the song lyrics preceding each chapter or any of the literary illusions made or quotes referenced. I don't own them and I'm really not attempting to claim otherwise. Let's leave the law out of this one, shall we?

**Rating: **R (adult themes, sex, violence, strong language)

**Summary: **Stare decisis: Latin, to stand by things decided; a reliance on precedent. The past dictates the present, and we are obliged to follow. We play connect-the-dots with humans and history alike and allow memory to shape the outcome. Chloe/Lex. Futurefic. AU.

**Author's Note: **I feel like there should be some fair warning regarding this story. There will be some Lex/Lana in this story. I know, there are some rabid opponents to Lana in general, and I personally don't find her character as depicted on the show that interesting or likable, but then again I feel that way about Lex and Chloe as characterized on the WB. The Lana of this story is not going to be dull one-note Lana with a heart of gold and obnoxious self-absorbed nature. But she's not even in this chapter. So this might be a moot point for now, but not for next chapter. Alright. That's out of the way. On another note, these chapters are written more so as vignettes rather than chapters. They can all pretty much be read on their own, but when you add them all together you get a greater story. That said, I'll just reinforce what I already wrote in the prior author's note: there is no sense of chronology here. None. Just thought I'd clarify that. Alrighty, on with the chapter. Please read, review and enjoy. Thanks!

- - -

-

- - -

**Like radium**

You look like a perfect fit  
For a girl in need of a tourniquet

- - -

You struck me dumb like radium  
Like Peter Pan or Superman  
You will come to save me

- - -

(C'mon and save me from the ranks of the freaks  
Who suspect they could never love anyone)

- _Save Me – Aimee Mann_

_- - -_

_-_

_- - -_

**2015**

**- - -**

**-**

**- - -**

This is a true story.

This is a true story and it goes something just exactly like reporting the news, newspaper print style: stark headlines, a quick byline and a barebones plot for the busy reader to follow over fast-food coffee and fast-paced transit. There is no once upon a time, and more likely than not, there will be no happily ever after.

On second thought and late-night, last minute revision the newspaper analogy should probably be thrown out for recycling and can come back instead as a prepackaged cable news network instead. It would be more appropriate.

This is Chloe Sullivan bringing you today's top headlines.

She lives alone, and when she really thinks about it, she imagines that we all really do live this way: alone. We may have other breathing bodies or fourteen cats wandering the hallways of our homes, but really, we're alone, thinking those silent thoughts we never really express because civility would never really have it that way, and when it comes down to it, this might just be her way of justifying the fact she is 29 and single and living in a one bedroom apartment with a bed only one person sleeps in.

We all live alone and we all lie to ourselves. Chloe works in broadcasting and generalities and hyperboles and carefully veiled metaphors have become her way of life. That, and her fine-tuned articulation and monthly hair appointments. Blonde newscasters work better. More popular. It's a statistic.

She arrives a few minutes late for work, and it's really not surprising, because, really, this happens every day. Cup of coffee in hand (venti, extra shot of espresso) and she stomps her way across the lobby, sharp high heels clacking, more murder weapon than fashion choice,over the studio's logo, embossed, marble, and she waits in front of the mirrored elevator doors for the sharp chime of its arrival.

She walks the hallway of the twenty-third floor and turns out some poor, sad son-of-a-bitch thought it would be in his best interest to bring a gun to the airport, and once there, swing it on out and pop the safety and unload a few rounds in the security guard, the business man behind him, a couple other equally sad, aimless travelers and the metal detector just for kicks before letting the last bullet get intimately acquainted with the gray matter hidden behind his skull.

It's going to be that kind of day.

The news van is waiting, but she checks her messages anyway. Deletes most of them, spills coffee on her desk, and races out the door, back down the way she came. Handheld mirror snapped shut, lipstick on straight, hair curled just enough to not look styled, but instead, natural. It's an art.

The van speeds its way down city streets, near-death almost accidents and break-neck turns apparently on the morning's agenda.

The airport is crawling with ambulances when there probably should be hearses instead. The police are there, weapons draw, wandering around, the adrenaline palpable on the air. She sees the SWAT team and the other nervous news crews and knows for sure it is going to be that kind of day.

One crazed shooter is never enough. Turns out there was another gunman, the word terrorist whispered as though in a play, dramatic, theatrical, and in some strange gesture of God only knows what is holding baggage claim hostage, and Chloe smirks, thinking how much they (the police, the audience at home) love this shit.

This is a regular shoot-'em up, cloak and daggers, heroes and villains kind of story.

They stay there a couple hours. SWAT team shoots him, and this time, there's no extra collateral to add to the list. She reports the unfolding drama, mixing fear and compassion and flawless bravado into a strange concoction that always seems to go down smooth.

The ride back to the studio is uneventful and she still has the six o'clock news to shoot. She goes over the notes for the evening and checks her voicemail. Like fucking clockwork.

And Tim, Tim left her a message on her phone. Meet him at his house after work. Meet him at his house a half-hour's drive outside the city.

She wishes he would just phrase it honestly, to the point and without all the euphemisms and polite innuendos. Hi, Chloe. It's Tim. My wife got the night shift and I'm horny as hell and was hoping you'd drive the half hour out of your way for a good fuck. Thanks. Bye.

Being the other woman, being the other half of an equation that adds up to a messy extramarital affair, is really anything but glamorous. She is fucking the city's prominent architect who just so happens to be married to the same city's prominent orthopedist, neither of which seem to mind the whole half-hour drive to work every morning. She imagines it's because they are getting paid in something tangible and rewarding, while all Chloe is left with is a heavy sense of guilt and unsatisfied appetite for something she can't name or have.

This is a motherfucking Harlequin romance novel.

She gets to his place at around nine. She hasn't eaten dinner and she knows he has no intention of preparing a meal. That's what his wife is for. Or takeout. Or the cook. Do they have a cook? It seems fitting.

He answers the door before she even knocks, and that's just great. That's just really great.

He kisses her once the door is closed, and maybe he really is this paranoid in all aspects of his life, or maybe it's just because it's her and he's married and the neighbor's might be watching with binoculars across the street.

"I've missed you," and she knows he hasn't missed her; he's missed the sex. But she guesses it's alright to be the same in his book. Better than resentment.

They fuck on the couch. There's just something too weird about having sex with a man in the bed he shares with his wife.

She keeps her shirt on. So does he. As she pulls her shoe back on, he brings her a glass of wine and sinks back down on the couch next to her.

"Ellie's pregnant." It takes her a minute to process what he's said. Ellie is pregnant. His wife is pregnant.

"Is that your way of saying this is over?" Her voice is hard to hear over the opera music he has playing on the conveniently hidden speakers around the house. She spies one behind the potted plant.

"Something like that."

"Congratulations. Light a cigar for me." She lets herself out. And really kind of sort of hopes the neighbors saw her leave.

- - -

-

- - -

This is based on a true story.

She can feel the tears before they come, and this is really so goddamned stupid. She really didn't expect Tim to ever leave his wife. She never was going to ask, and he was never going to do it. They were a society couple, and she was the newswoman, telling people the horrors of bombing Baghdad and the triumph of technological advancements. It really doesn't work that way.

Good evening. I am Chloe Sullivan, reporting from the scene live, and this just in: I am a giant fuck-up. In related news, nothing else really matters.

A sharp turn to the right, and it really wasn't supposed to go like this. In the style of some simple narration she was supposed to go to college, get a degree in journalism, marry Clark, write Pulitzer Prize winning articles exposing corruption at its basest level and save the world while sitting cozy with a mug of coffee and her laptop.

Instead she went to college, got the degree, Clark died, she got a job at some alphabet soup news station, fucked Lex Luthor a few times amidst it all and instead of saving the world, she just fueled the same old shit on and on and on. And took up with a married man as of recent. Whose wife is now pregnant. With their first child. Their, as in his wife and his. Their, as in a family in the making.

It hurts a lot more than it should. And she really doubts it's Tim's fault. Somewhere, mixed up between the heavy on-air make-up, the stacks of notes and old newspapers she keeps in her bedroom and the tangled affairs, she took so many wrong turns she not only ended up in no-man's land, but rather, somewhere akin to where she started from. Older, but none the wiser.

It starts to rain, and yes, it's been that kind of day, and she really shouldn't be all that surprised.

Blinding light and she slams on her brakes.

- - -

-

- - -

This is the movie adaptation of the novel based on the true story.

So. This is how I die.

She thinks it without meaning to, the thought entering unwanted as the airbag deployed right into her pretty little face. Her nose better not be fucking broken. If so, GM is totally going on her shit list and she will do everything within her power, right down to a frontline expose on anything she can get her little injured hands on.

The car didn't stop, it had just kept going, and amidst the crunch of metal and her fingers slip-sliding off the steering wheel, she knew the side of her car had just been smashed in.

God bless four-way stops.

But then, freeze-frame, Cirque-de-Soleil acrobats, she's flipping over, seatbelt biting into her collarbone, head hitting something shy of soft.

She closes her eyes. And when she opens them again. She can smell gasoline.

She wiggles her toes. Tries to wiggle her fingers, but finds her right arm awkwardly trapped.

A thumping in her ears, and yes, the blood is rushing to her head. She is hanging upside down, bat-style, in her brand new car.

This will be aired on the eleven o'clock news if the choppers can get here in time. Probably Kenneth, filling in for her.

This, this is the story of Chloe Sullivan's life.

- - -

-

- - -

She goes to work the next day anyway. Late, and it's even less of a possible surprise today. Arm in a sling, hair kind of limp. They put one of those strip things on her broken nose (newly realigned), a black eye is forming around her right eye, and her arm rests in a fucking sling. She looks like the dumpy battered wife she interviewed last month.

"Christ, Chloe. What the fuck?" And it's Kenneth. More homo than metro, but they keep that on the low-down, because, really, that's all Page Six needs to hear.

"You should see the other guy," she offers weakly, and he rewards her with a chuckle, equally weak on his part.

She can see it in his caged smile. This fucker is stealing her job.

"Have you talked to Leonard yet?" Leonard, Leonard the head of the station, a multimillionaire with a love for barely legal wives he shuffles through like a bad hand in a high stakes poker game. And it just reaffirms her suspicions. Kenneth is stealing her job from right under her broken, bruised nose.

"No, no," she adds softly.

And as though on cue, a secretary waves her down, informing her Leonard requests her presence in his office. Now. And PS, you look like hell. Get some sleep.

She walks the hall to the elevator, riding it to the top floor, and it's the fucking Tower of London and she's heading towards her own beheading like goddamn motherfucking Anne Boleyn.

The doors open with a ding, and she marches forward, wounded soldier, and arrives at his office a little too soon for her liking.

The woman at the desk acknowledges her in one glance that is more a judgment than appraisal and lets her know she can head on in. Chloe didn't have to say a thing.

She knocks once, with her good hand, and a voice barks from inside to come on in. She twists the knob and in she goes.

"Miss Sullivan!" And Jesus Christ she hates this man and his office. It reminds her of Smallville, it reminds her of LuthorCorp, it reminds her of the men who sit a the top of the food chain and try as you might you just slip slide down it's slanted sides and there's nothing you can really do about it.

"Good morning, sir."

"I imagine you know why you're here?"

"I have my theories. Sir."

He exhales heavily, his fingers a steeple before him. "I'm afraid we have to let you go, Miss Sullivan."

And she smiles. "Is this because of the car crash?"

"Well, of course we can't have our lead anchor looking like the losing end of a prizefight, but, no, Miss Sullivan, it isn't because of the car crash. It's mainly due to the fact that _you_ have helped us lose three of our largest sponsors. Your exposes, while entertaining, and more importantly true, don't belong here. We are a multimillion corporation funded by the multibillion. With that comes a short leash, and I thought you understood that."

"And I did. Sir."

"Did you? Then why did every news report come with a subtle editorial, tacked on neatly at the end? Oh, don't look at me like that, Miss Sullivan. I'm a bright man and you're a bright woman. I caught them all, and better yet, understood them. And guess what? The men who run those multibillion corporations that basically run us caught them too. And they didn't like it.

And besides. You're late every damn day of the week."

"So I'm fired?" Oh, God, it's back to the freelance writing and the dread every month of paying the rent. Goddammit. Goddammit.

"It's been a pleasure, Miss Sullivan."

He shakes her hand, and looks at her. Smiles, sad.

"It's just that kind of world, Miss Sullivan."

She exits his office with a nod, closing the door behind her, and if yesterday had been that kind of day, she can only imagine today is following suit as well.

It's just been that kind of year.

Who the hell is she kidding? It's just been that kind of life.

As she waits for the elevator, she can hear the interns behind her chatting, and she concentrates on them rather than the fact she is about to scream or cry or break something or maybe all of the above in one fell swoop.

"Did you hear the news? Lex Luthor is running for president."

"No fucking way! Lex Luthor? He is so hot. Did you see him on the cover of last month's _GQ_? So hot right now."

"I know," and the elevator doors open. "And now he's running for president!"

"Un-fucking-believable," she mutters to herself, the doors sliding shut on the top floor of her former office building, and she knows this is her last day in New York. She can't stay here. No. She can't.

This is a saga based somewhere in history and probably ending in tragedy.

This is Chloe Sullivan's life.

This is not the end.

- - -

-

- - -


	3. Bully in a china shop

**Stare Decisis**

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. I don't own _Smallville_ or the song lyrics preceding each chapter or any of the literary illusions made or quotes referenced. I don't own them and I'm really not attempting to claim otherwise. Let's leave the law out of this one, shall we?

**Rating: **R (adult themes, sex, violence, strong language)

**Summary: **Stare decisis: Latin, to stand by things decided; a reliance on precedent. The past dictates the present, and we are obliged to follow. We play connect-the-dots with humans and history alike and allow memory to shape the outcome. Chloe/Lex. Futurefic. AU.

**Author's Note: **Lana-haters, be warned. She is here, in this chapter. And more importantly, with Lex. Calm yourselves. Once again, we have traveled back in time. Setting the stage, some foreshadowing, whatever you want to call it. Not too much romantic interaction between Chloe and Lex, but we'll get there, so no worrying. Thank you for reading and reviewing and I am glad to see people are enjoying this. Um, what else...oh, I have a livejournal now (link is in the profile), so come on over, stop by, say hello, friend me, whatever. And without further ado, I bring you chapter three. Enjoy!

**- - -**

**-**

**- - -**

**Bully in a china shop**

You've come here just to start a fight  
You had to piss on our parade  
You had to shred our big day  
You had to ruin it for all concerned  
In a drunken punch-up at a wedding

- - -

Hypocrite opportunist  
Don't infect me with your poison  
A bully in a china shop  
When I turn 'round you stay frozen to the spot

- - -

(You had the pointless snide remarks of hammer headed sharks  
The pot will call the kettle black)

- _"A Punch-up at a Wedding" - Radiohead_

**- - - **

**-**

**- - -**

**2010**

- - -

-

- - -

Antony had a wife decorating one arm when he met her, but Cleo didn't seem to mind and added her name to his list of wives, Mormon style, and pumped out a couple of babies for him. She took her life shortly after he fell dead; silly Antony, until his last little breath, had believed she was already waiting for him in the afterlife.

Fool.

- - -

-

- - -

Click. Click click. Click click click click click click. Click. Click click.

With a dramatic sigh and a final click, Chloe throws the pen onto thekitchen tablebefore her. It skids across the tabletop, meeting her coffee mug with a ceramic _clang_.

It sits there before her. Cream colored paper, but she is sure there is a far more eloquent, elegant name for it. Broken eggshells she's treading on just considering even attending the soiree written, all swirls and whirls of ink, across the page.

Chloe Sullivan has been cordially invited to attend and witness the marriage of Lex Luthor and Lana Lang. The alliteration is enough to make her head explode.

She wonders if Lana will adopt his last name. Or hyphenate. Lana Lang-Luthor is too much to handle and she finds herself pouring some whiskey in her morning coffee and tells herself she of all people deserves this, because, really, her former best friend is marrying her former lover. And unfortunately that's what he was, dare she say it, all he was. A lover. It makes her think of clandestine affairs and heaving bosoms over constricting corsets and counts who make queens and knights that save the day, and really, that's not what this was. At all.

It was Chloe fucking her roommate's boyfriend at every ample opportunity. It was her lying all the time and lying under him and lying to herself because reality kind of got a little gray and scary and it all was too much to handle unless she had Lex Luthor's cock between her thighs, and isn't that just a sad state of affairs?

They're getting hitched in November. She's glad they didn't choose the summer. Because if she was feeling a little possessive, but never jealous, she would call the summer theirs and Lana doesn't belong there dressed in white, hair full of rice. Luckily she's not. Not possessive. Not jealous. Not anything. Apathy: the safest path to follow.

Romeo married Juliet and then he choked on some poison and she drilled a dagger through her heart. Their parents were probably right to try and keep them far apart. Too bad all their best friends had to bite it in the end as well. Selfish fuckers.

Sliding the invitation between her fingers she bets the color of the paper is called Pearl Harbor or something equally disastrous, horrific and entirely inappropriate.

She picks up the pen and resumes her angry clicking.

- - -

-

- - -

Lex Luthor has always favored formal wear to jeans and a t-shirt. There is something about the heavily starched white shirt, the waistcoat, the heavy black jacket and matching pants. There is something about having shoes that shine and an ensemble to match one's demeanor.

Lex Luthor is a formal man who has never done casual very well. In that cocky, smart-ass way of his, he would call this his one failing, and time and age has helped him to disguise the true look and feel of disappointment that wraps around him like an old black tuxedo at the thought.

He's getting married today. Third marriage. Third marriage attached to the longest courtship in his history, surprising friends, family and tabloids alike.

They say that the third time is the charm. And he knew this was coming, eventually. Lana was the kind of girl, woman rather, that men marry. Not to mention the fact that they had been dating for the better part of four years. Marriage is to be expected, anticipated.

Lex Luthor is a formal man who doesn't do nerves very well either. And as he tries to knot his bowtie for the third time he pretends his hands aren't shaking and he pretends that his stomach isn't twisting itself in equally messy knots.

A man's wedding is supposed to be one of his happiest days. But they say that kind of maudlin shita lot. Theylike tosay that high school is the best four years of your life and then they alter the statement five minutes after graduation and tell you that it's actually those college years that you will remember and treasure forever. For him, high school was actually a boarding school that culminated in a nervous breakdown and college was just the battlefield where he nursed drug addictions, sexual perversions and high-stakes gambling. Eight years that he would never call the greatest, happiest times of his life.

Cracking his neck and stretching his shoulders he thinks those fools really have it all wrong. There is no long span of time that gets classified as perfect. No. The greatest, the happiest moments of our lives are just that: moments. Spare minutes and strange pops of time where everything gels and feels right and it's then that you know you will never be happier and it's then that you know you will look back on while perched on your death bed and think, yes, life was good, and yes, I was an alright person.

Getting his tie just right, he realizes that his wife-to-be isn't featured in a single one of those moments. He has a feeling that sort of sentiment wouldn't sell too many copies of _InStyle: Weddings. _

Marilyn Monroe married Joe Dimaggio and then fucked JFK in the name of patriotism or lust or something equally the same. Or so they say. He caught the wrong end of a speeding bullet and she lies stone cold dead at the heart of a giant conspiracy theory. Joe kept hitting them out of the park and America always loved him so.

His father always spoke of responsibility and accountability and he thinks this is a prime example of it. He wonders if the fucker would be proud.

Probably. He married the same kind of woman, after all.

There is a rap at the door and an usher pops his head through.

"Are you ready, sir?"

One last smile and a final nod at his reflection.

You do what you have to do.

"Yeah. I'm ready."

- - -

-

- - -

The bride walks down the aisle dressed in white. They all stand and the women cry, holding pristine white handkerchiefs to their tear-stained eyes.

The bridesmaids wait at the altar. Chloe doesn't recognize a single one. Lex can't remember any of their names.

Lana doesn't cry. Chloe might be surprised. Lex is relieved.

There are some readings, a little singing, and Chloe never thought Lex belonged in a church, and as he stands there, she can't help but think he looks out of place.

This is the first time Lex has been in a church since his second wedding.

They use traditional vows, promising sickness and health and everything else, selling their souls to each other and promising fidelity and trustworthiness and everything else implicit in those secondhand words. Chloe is disappointed, desperate for something, anything to mock. Instead shejust feelsdeflated and kind of sort of sad watching the priest join their hands together.

Lex feels almost tongue-tied and pretends this is just a business transaction until he looks in Lana's eyes and feels a strange wash of guilt.

They are pronounced husband and wife and they kiss, sweet, chaste, romantic, and holding hands they descend the aisle.

Lady Di married Prince Charles and inherited some of England and a lot of bad publicity despite her love of land mine victims. She met Dodi Al-Faid and a messy breakneck turn in a tunnel thanks to persistent papparazzi. Charles married again, Camilla, or some equally bad British name, and maybe this time finally got it right.

- - -

-

- - -

The reception is everything to be expected of a Luthor union. Immense, expensive and ostentatious without being overly tacky.

Chloe wonders how much the string quartet alone cost. Probably more than a year's rent. Hell, probably more than a year's rent for the whole goddamn building.

Clark is there and he hugs her. All Chloe can think of are synonyms for the word "awkward" as she empties her third champagne flute.

"You've been back to Smallville recently?" Of course he would ask that question. Of course, for him, it always has gone back to Smallville and back to the red flannel and the hay bales and those fucking meteors.

She plucks another glass from a passing waiter.

"Not since the funeral." She wonders where the emotion is in that statement. It seems to have flown the coop, much like her promise to stay sober for the evening.

"Oh," Lana breathes and Chloe feels just a hint of satisfaction, because, really, there is definitely somewhere a rule that you don't bring up funerals at weddings and you don't rain on the bride's parade with sad-sack tales of the dead.

There is also definitely a rule that states the bride's best friend, or, well, former best friend, is not supposed to think of the groom in ways that only late-night cable TV can depict. She's also not supposed to fuck him, but at this point, that's just six years worth of water under the bridge. And really, that's a fucking flood.

Chloe never knew herself to be such a rebel.

"But," Clark protests, and honestly, he would, "that was three years ago."

"Clark, please," Lana begs, and Chloe feels what might be gratitude, an emotion desperately out of place here.

She's not sure why but talking to Clark about her father's death three years before always leaves her with a sour taste in her mouth and the desire to break something. Preferably his face. It's really rather inexplicable and she really doesn't have the energy to investigate it.

She won't get paid for that.

"Yeah, well, there's really nothing to go home to. And I never really saw the point of running back to the past."

"I couldn't agree more." She chokes on her champagne a little as the groom himself enters the room. She wonders if Lex ever took a course in public speaking, because he is really, really good. Too good. Good as in he swallowed a mic and now it's hugging his larynx and somewhere along the way he called up Stalin or Mussolini, hell, maybe even Hitler, and asked for some advice on how to take over a room as opposed to, let's say, Russia.

Clark spots his mother and wanders to her side and Lana excuses herself to say hello to well-dressed strangers Chloe has will probably never meet.

"She looks beautful. But you already know that. I imagine you wouldn't be marrying her otherwise. 'That's the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.'"

" 'In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since. 'Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,' he told me, 'just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had.''"

She swallows and smirks. Asshole. "Shall we continue, or do you think the words of poor F. Scott Fitzgerald have suffered enough abuse? I imagine at this point his coffin is a full blown Tilt-A-Whirl."

He chuckles. "How's the Senate going, Lex?"

"Boring as expected. Old, white men stuffed in tired suits with tired ideas just waiting for the bell to ring for recess so they can run off and play golf."He is quiet for a second, surveying the scene around them, hands in his pockets."And you, Chloe. How's the Metropolis beat treating you?"

"I'm leaving for New York in a couple weeks."

He looks surprised and she kind of likes it. "What for?"

"Job interview. Big cable newsnetwork gig. Kind of a big deal, I guess." A really big deal, in all actuality, but he doesn't need to know that. If he does, she probably won't get it and there's just something about failing in the eyes of a Luthor that is amazingly unappealing.

"You're giving up writing?" And he would say that. He would. He has always been quite good at finding the thorns in her side and giving them an extra sadistic twist for good measure. And the sad part is, this is probably what attracted her to him in the first place.

"Not all of us get to immerse ourselves in the things we love giving little or no thought to money or income or rent." She wasn't supposed to sound this bitter. That was a promise she was hell-bent on keeping for the evening. No bitterness from her. None. She wasn't going to be _that_ girl.

He leans in close to her and suddenly it's summer and there's a giant frontyard stretching before the front porch and he's asking her if she's alright, if she's okay being here by herself, and she's lying and she's saying yes and he's not believing her and he's grabbing her by the shoulders and –

"Do you need money, Chloe?" Six years is a long time. Six years can change so much and too much and somehow despite it all, his voice still sounds the same, and he still talks like he cares, and maybe he does, it's just the sentiment is edged inbarbed wireand you have to be careful while accepting because ifyou don'tyou end up like Chloe, attending his wedding while he marries another woman.

Henry VIII married too many times and changed the rules and chopped some heads. Lucky Liz took the throne and good old Hank should probably be thanking his historically deemed cum receptacles of wives he married with dreams of sons and kings dancing through his empty head for providing this path in history.

"What do I look like? Some walking charity case?"

"You're one glass of champagne away from it."

"Fuck you."

He leans in closer and his voice gets lower and he really is such an asshole and she kind of knows he actually cares and that's what makes it even worse.

"I'm being serious, Chloe. Are you in trouble?"

"No, Lex. I can handle it myself. Besides, quite frankly, based on our past rapport and dealings, you would be the last one I'd turn to."

Blank face, blank stare, and she wonders why those TV people or ESPN people don't hound him to play poker on their little celebrity tournaments or whatever. He has to be fantastic at it based on his poker-face alone.

"What's that supposed to mean?" It's his cold tone of voice, that warning tone that tells you and his employees and underlings that you are one step away from being fired or executed or something equally bad and undesirable.

She wonders what the view's like at the top of the world.

"Please, Lex. You're getting older, but not that old where the last six years would be just completley wiped from your memory. You and me don't add up to much more than a complicated mess, and every time we try to deal with each other objectively we fail miserably. I'm sure you remember _that_ much."

"Why'd you come here tonight, Chloe?"

"Because I was invited."

It's a crowded room and people jostle and bump their way around them. Her arms and shoulders are bare and she can feel the goosebumps rising. She idly wishes she hadn't left her jacket in the car. Not that it went well with the dress or anything. But she's just trying to think of anything and everything but the look on Lex's face.

If Lex did earnest, this would be it.

He runs a hand over his bald head and exhales, long and slow.

"You shouldn't have come," he grits out quietly, the string quartet washing over his words, long and soulful strains of music, couples dancing in the next room over.

She looks away and swallows down her remaining champagne. Looking back she finds him still staring at her, waiting.

"Do you remember last summer?" She doesn't wait for an answer and just plows on ahead. "I do. And I'm sure you do too, Lex. I asked you if you thought that some people belong together. I asked you, and you said no. And I guess I just came here to see if you were going to stand by your word."

She backs up a step, smiling.

"Congratulations," she says, louder than need be. "You have."

- - -

-

- - -

The honeymoon suite in Greece is larger than Chloe's apartment. Lex remembers these kinds of things.

Lana is still wearing white, no longer a bridal gown, but white all the same. She sits at the vanity unclasping her pearl bracelet.

"Chloe looked lovely tonight." Her voice shatters the silence of the room and Lex drops the cufflink he was unhooking.

On his hands and knees, he doesn't even think of how to answer. "Hmm? Did she?"

Lana laughs long and slow. He'd saw "calculatingly" but he really doesn't think she has it in her. "Please, Lex." She drops her earrings on the counter and leans back in her seat. "A little tired though. Still quite pretty."

"Yes," he mutters and heads into the bathroom.

He can still picture her, wild blonde hair, spread out along the headrest, sitting there, laughing, in the passenger seat. _Do you think some people belong together? Like it's meant to be?_

Their honeymoon lasts a day and a half. He returns to Metropolis to attend to business and the process of grieving and forgetting and Lana stays in Europe, spending his money and pretending she's happily married. Their honeymoon lasts a day and a half and they spend the remaining month devoted to holiday and relaxation setting the stage for a farce of a marriage that neither one acknowledges as imaginary.

Sid and Nancy never married and with all the blood and mind-altering substances clouding up their culminating moments that might have been for the best.

- - -

-

- - -


	4. Cold

**Stare Decisis**

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. I don't own _Smallville_ or the song lyrics preceding each chapter or any of the literary illusions made or quotes referenced. I don't own them and I'm really not attempting to claim otherwise. Let's leave the law out of this one, shall we?

**Rating: **R (adult themes, sex, violence, strong language)

**Summary: **Stare decisis: Latin, to stand by things decided; a reliance on precedent. The past dictates the present, and we are obliged to follow. We play connect-the-dots with humans and history alike and allow memory to shape the outcome. Chloe/Lex. Futurefic. AU.

**Author's Note: **Alright, Lana warning once again. She's here in full-force. As is Evil!Lex. This story is really going to focus on Lex as the man he is supposed to become: evil, all-powerful, and maybe just a little batshit-insane. In that sense, this chapter is a little dark and takes place a year before the elections. I want to thank all of you for the support, and I am really, really excited about this story. So, yes, here you are: Chapter Four. Thanks for reading!

**- - -**

**-**

**- - -**

**Cold**

Money can't buy back  
Your youth when you're old  
Or a friend when you're lonely  
Or a love that's grown cold

- - -

The wealthiest person  
Is a pauper at times  
Compared to the man  
With a satisfied mind

- - -

(If I had his money, I could do things my way)

- _A Satisfied Mind – Johnny Cash_

**- - -**

**-**

**- - -**

**2015**

**- - -**

**-**

**- - -**

That's my family, Kay. It's not me.

It's not me.

- - -

-

- - -

Lionel Luthor liked to drink two glasses of scotch after work, slouch just enough to look leisurely but never indolent in his high back leather chair and say: Son, life was never meant for the living, but rather the dead. We're left the mess they made and we're here to fix it. We live in the shadows of the dead and try in vain to live up to names etched in stone. It isn't pretty. And the only thing we've got waiting for us is a coffin and a promise of the same.

Lionel Luthor was a glass half-empty kind of a guy. Actually he was more of a glass half-empty and therefore should be shattered into a million pieces kind of a guy.

His idea of a bedtime story was a lesson in Machiavelli and a review of the finer teachings of _The Art of War_ or maybe a quote or two from _The Godfather_. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. A man in my position can't afford to be made to look ridiculous. I'm gonna make him an offer he can't refuse. I don't like violence, Tom. I'm a businessman; blood is a big expense.

That's my family, Kay. It's not me.

Not exactly "and the cow jumped over the moon."

- - -

-

- - -

The penthouse interior resembles something akin to the pages of _Town & Country_ or some equally upscale, holler if you're rich magazine.

Not him in the slightest. But he guesses, and knows, that's his own fault.

Before the move to D.C. Lana was there every night after dinner. Glass of red wine in one hand, paint chips, furniture samples, ripped patchwork quilt shreds of upholstery asking him his opinions on mahogany and leather and every fabric and shade under the rainbow.

He really didn't give a fuck. And she really didn't seem to get it.

He knew. She wanted this to be some kind of husband-wife bonding activity. Picking out shower heads and screen doors at Home Depot on the weekends, donning paint-stained jeans and laughing like they only do on those home decorating shows and 30-second commercials that Sears believes to be the paradigm for the happy married couple. Instead it turned into a concubine and _Queer Eye_ reject project with persistent inquiries on his opinion regarding sage and chartreuse and other colors resembling names unemployed pole dancers share.

One night he snapped. He told Lana that he didn't care and that she's the woman and she can decide on her own, for once, and that that's why they are paying Ricardo or Emmanuel or Raoul or whoever the obnoxiously flamboyant man with the pencil thin mustache is and that he has work to attend to and other more important matters and the tiling in the bathroom is really the last thing on his mind. Of course, it had all been peppered with numerous expletives and Lana had cried.

He apologized that night. And sent her flowers in the morning.

She bought herself a new Chanel handbag, jumped ahead of the six-month waiting list, signing her name with a flourish on the dotted line. He imagines that the bill he received was his penance and for now, all has been forgiven.

The expenses racked up through their domestic disputes are enough to rival most fledging GDPs of the nations the world over.

At least she hasn't tried to kill him. Yet.

- - -

-

- - -

He eats his breakfasts in front of the monuments and memorials of Washington D.C. He drinks his coffee, munches on a Danish or a bagel while standing in the shadows of the finer points of American patriotic tourism.

Sometimes they meet him there. His contacts. The people that unofficially work for him and officially don't exist. The men that kill in his name, the men that collect the undercover dirt on rival corporations and rival politicians. These are the men that build his empire. And no one knows that they exist. And Lex never sees them, save for in the early morning hours beneath old stone built in honor of the memory of the very nation Lex is taking over.

His campaign manager is a CIA mole and may or may not have worked for the KGB at some point.

The head of his security staff is tied through shredded documents and scorched paperwork to more assassinations and coups the government will ever acknowledge.

Lana once asked him where he went in the mornings. He really didn't see a point in lying and he saw an even lesser point in speaking the truth, so he just told her in front of the White House. Little half lies: the foundation of every relationship Lex Luthor has connected himself to.

She had laughed, laughed as though it was the funniest thing he could have possibly said. Her entire face had lit up and she had called him Audrey Hepburn.

Oh, he got it. He got it alright. He had seen _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ enough times over the courtship of his current wife and he remembered that opening scene: skinny Holly Golightly clad in her evening finery, bold sunglasses and a disposable breakfast, staring into the closed windows of Tiffany's, the music of Henry Mancini swelling in the background.

And then Lana had quit laughing. She had quit laughing and put down the magazine she was reading and tried to look him in the eye.

"My own Holly Golightly. Both of you starting your day staring at all you don't possess."

He would have called her tone acidic, but Lana's personality and demeanor in general neutralized the sentiment.

"Yet. I start my day in the company of all that I don't possess yet."

She had picked up her magazine and refused to look in his direction until the following day.

- - -

-

- - -

The morning is crisp, cold, a chill and a fog out of place for a spring morning sliding across the city and hovering gently over the reflecting pool in front of the Washington Monument.

Lex stands there, solid, still, one hand in his pocket, the other clutching his lukewarm coffee.

He raises his head to watch the two men in black approaching. Not a sound, not a sound, and this is how these men are trained: to just appear out of thin air with nary a footstep. And they do their job well.

They all wear black leather gloves and black overcoats.

They don't bother to shake hands.

The man on the right clears his throat, coughs into a fist and Lex swears that if this man was the nervous type he would be having a full-blown panic attack right now. Instead he coughs and pulls at the fingertips of his gloves, all excess movements, all betraying the unmoving calm of the morning.

"Sir, we have a slight problem on our hands."

Lex saw this coming. Lex knew this was coming.

"How slight are we talking here?"

The second man looks away, out towards the early morning traffic, towards the sound of horns bleating and the rush of speed.

"Your brother knows, sir. Your brother knows about your father."

Lex didn't see this coming.

"My brother?"

"Yes, sir. Lucas Luthor. Rumor is that he's willing to go to the press with the information he gathered."

Lex Luthor doesn't acknowledge fear. He refuses to recognize it. But the tangling in his gut is something real and he doesn't like this. He doesn't like this at all because this, this isn't supposed to be happening. Not now. Not ever.

"And what information might that be?"

"That one Lex Luthor, now a powerful politician and forerunner in the presidential race, had his own father rendered insane and incapacitated and locked up at the finest institutes for the simple reason that the old man knew too much about his eldest son's dealings and they were enough to make the crooked bastard sick."

Lex looks down at his feet then up at the sky. His hand is clenched in a fist deep within his pocket and he can feel the tips of his nails biting into his palm even through the leather of the gloves.

When he speaks, it is all clenched teeth and angry, strained tone.

"I want you to find him. I want you to find Lucas and you do what you have to do to make sure that son of a bitch doesn't say another fucking word. Understood?"

He turns to walk away, towards the fog, now slowly clearing and dispersing.

"You want him dead, sir?" And he'd tell these men it's dangerous to yell things like these in public, that it's dangerous to let people know your secrets, that it's far too dangerous to allow people a window, a door, a step into your life because once they're there you eventually force them out and there really ever is only one way.

"Do what you have to do." He pauses, deep breath, and this must be how it feels to be a judge, sitting there, white wig, no jury, and you decide who swings from the noose and who gets to return home with a new lease on life. "He never had much of a future anyway."

He doesn't turn to walk away this time. He waits. Because this time, this time he knows for sure what comes next.

"And your father?"

A quick swallow and a glance past the reflecting pool and up and out over the line of trees.

"Do what you have to do."

**- - -**

**-**

**- - -**

"_Lionel Luthor Murdered by Estranged Son."_

"_Luthor and Son Murder - Suicide"_

"_Lex Luthor: Sole Heir to the Throne"_

The third headline catches his eye and he drops the stack of papers on his desk.

There are bouquets of flowers decorating his office, sympathizing in his public grief.

Leaning back he opens the paper, that third paper. And smiles.

He sees his face spread across the page, giant headline pronouncing the death of his father and the death of his brother and the birth of something else and he knows, he fucking knows only one person would dare write a piece like this.

His eyes flicker down, down to that quiet, unassuming byline, and it's this, it's those three little words that speak the loudest of volumes.

He smiles once more and takes a leisurely sip of his morning coffee.

"Welcome back, Miss Sullivan. Welcome back."

- - -

-

- - -

He arrives home to find a horrified wife sitting in the kitchen surrounded by even more flowers. She too has her own collection of newspapers before her, spread out, some macabre collage, her eyes wide and glassy.

"I just…I just can't believe this, Lex. I mean, your brother killed your father? Your father was ill! This is just…this is terrible."

He can almost see the Washington Monument from his window. He can almost see it, but trees and heavy cloud cover mar the view.

He glances over towards Lana's tear-stained face, her shaky hands clutching the newspaper, probably covered in the monochromatic print and he thinks he's lucky. He is lucky he married this woman. She'll never question. She'll never doubt him.

She'll never think he's low enough to be the same.

Walking over, he wraps her into a hug, and whispers softly in her ear.

"That's my family, Lana. That's my family."

That's his family, Lana. And it doesn't really matter what Michael Corleone has to say. The apple never does fall too far from the tree.

- - -

-

- - -


	5. The greenest summer

**Stare Decisis**

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. I don't own _Smallville_ or the song lyrics preceding each chapter or any of the literary illusions made or quotes referenced. I don't own them and I'm really not attempting to claim otherwise. Let's leave the law out of this one, shall we?

**Rating: **R (adult themes, sex, violence, strong language)

**Summary: **Stare decisis: Latin, to stand by things decided; a reliance on precedent. The past dictates the present, and we are obliged to follow. We play connect-the-dots with humans and history alike and allow memory to shape the outcome. Chloe/Lex. Futurefic. AU.

**Author's Note: **This took way longer than it should have, any my apologies come along with this chapter. It's been a strange, busy summer, but, yeah, enough with the excuses. Here it is: Chapter Five. I think you'll figure out rather quickly where and when this section takes place, because, yeah, we have another leap back in time here. So, here we are: Chapter Five. Thanks for reading!

- - -

**-**

**- - -**

**The greenest summer**

Saying everything you have ever seen was just a mirror  
And you've spent your whole life sweating in an endless fever  
And now you are laying in a bathtub full of freezing water  
Wishing you were a ghost

- - -

But once you knew a girl and you named her lover  
And danced with her in kitchens through the greenest summer  
But autumn came, she disappeared  
You can't remember

Where she said she was going to  
But you know that she is gone

'Cause she left you a song  
That you don't want to sing

- - -

(But I believe that lovers should be tied together

And thrown into the ocean in the worst of weather)

- _Perfect Sonnet – Bright Eyes_

**- - -**

**-**

**- - -**

**2004**

**- - -**

**-**

**- - -**

His name is Joe.

His name is Joe and his last name is something she shall never learn because apparently there are rules about these sorts of things, measures taken to protect privacy and safety and everything else his very presence is supposed to be securing. His name is Joe and she tries to joke with him, comparing him to everyone from Madonna to Beyonce to the Artist Formerly Known as Prince for the sole reason there is no last name he can tell her, but he remains stoic like a Buckingham guard and Chloe just doesn't get how he can manage all this (the empty house, the still quiet, the threat of death and violence and everything ugly and bad) without laughing.

It's day fifteen. She feels like she's being buried alive.

His name is Joe and he's her bodyguard/security guard/Secret Service/guardian angel/prison guard. He's fifty-two with graying hair, a body once fit but now on the downslide and a nose that looks like it's been broken a time or two. He was once a Marine and now does _this_, whatever this may be exactly (arm for hire, mall security guard, tollbooth operator) and he may or may not have children, he may or may not have a wife but he is currently the only human contact Chloe has had for the last week.

This summer officially sucks.

- - -

-

- - -

They separated them after the first (almost) attack. It had been three AM and she was almost fast asleep and there was breaking glass then the firing of guns and as she sat up in bed she realized this was the first time she had ever heard a gunshot without the tinny accompaniment of a booming television soundtrack or the assurance the hero would save the day.

She was ushered through a trapdoor (an escape through the cellar; she had wished for revolving bookshelves) and they ran to a van and for a second she feared she was in the clutches of the wrong guys this time and the car ride wouldn't end in a new residence but a swift stop and a sudden drop and her last few seconds on earth.

Fear is a tricky thing.

Her dad was moved to an undisclosed location and she was made to do the same. The house is small, split-level, but nice, and she thinks 'dollhouse' and almost has to laugh.

After dinner (she eats alone) she tells herself it's just like it's always been: Mom not there and Dad's at work, because really, it's just easier to imagine that this, the eating alone and the washing the dishes in silence is the exception and not the rule and that tomorrow there will be company and tomorrow there will be something more than just herself.

She's almost finished reading _Doctor Zhivago. _Her high school English teacher (if she ever sees her again) would be proud.

**- - -**

**-**

**- - -**

Her cell phone rings and there's a thrill of panic, because, really, no one is supposed to call her, not her dad, and everyone else thinks her dead and burned and buried or whatever. But her phone is ringing and when she flips it open she says hello in a hurry and prays that her voice sounds nothing like her own.

"Did you get the books I sent?" And it's Lex. It's Lex and apparently busy men such as himself don't believe in greetings such as 'hello' or 'how are you' and everything formal and everything deemed socially necessary.

She takes a deep breath because this is unexpected, but she imagines it must be safe.

"Yes, I did. Just now." An open cardboard box sits before her and she found it funny at the time but didn't question it. She kind of wishes now she had. "I must say though, the Kerouac was a little cruel though."

He chuckles, even though it wasn't a joke and she guesses that there must have been something in her tone that made it vaguely comical.

"What, you're not a fan of the beats?"

The conversation is light and breezy and if he was anyone else and she was someone different, she would use the word flirtatious. But they are who they are so it's just banter and it's funny how much she has missed sarcasm and wit.

"On the contrary. But reading about the joys of travel and the road while trapped in a well-decorated prison is really a kind of torture."

Her voice has a teasing lilt to it, but Lex is quiet all the same.

"I'm sorry, Chloe."

"I know."

She never says that she forgives him.

- - -

-

- - -

She knows she should be better than this, and well, she kind of likes to think she is. And she knows that she claims she is to anyone willing to listen, but really, when it all comes down to it, she doesn't blame herself for this mess. She doesn't think of herself as a martyr, and definitely not as a hero. She kind of sees herself as the victim, and that might just be the saddest, most pathetic thing she has ever heard short of _Lifetime_ television. And alone in the summer with a glass of lemonade because it's a refreshing cliché, she's watched a lot of it.

She sees herself as the victim, but she doesn't blame Lionel and his creed of evil or his minions sent to do his bidding. No. When it all comes down to it she blames Lex and there's a cruel kind of satisfaction in the holding of him as accountable.

He knows this. And she knows that he just acts otherwise.

She knows this is why he starts to visit. Why he finally grants her internet access even though it is risky. Why he takes an honest interest in her reading habits and favorite films. It's not an interest in her; it's an interest in quelling the hurt and the blame all directed at him from boiling over the edges.

It's working. Maybe even a little too well. It's not forgiveness closing in on her. Instead it's attraction. And Chloe may be young, but she knows. Locked in a house in the middle of nowhere, with only grass fields and sunshine for company, she's pretty sure short of running away or calling Lionel himself, this is the most dangerous thing she could do.

- - -

-

- - -

The doorbell rings and she thinks 'air raid' and wonders where you're supposed to run when the enemy is at the door and weaponry and defensive maneuvering are not exactly your strong suit.

She hears Joe open it and she hears the perfunctory greeting, all formal and solid and she knows immediately whose feet are on the welcome mat.

Guess who's coming to dinner? Lex fucking Luthor.

The timer dings and she has a potholder on her hand and of course, Lex would choose now to come over when she is playing Betty fucking Crocker and trying out recipes she caught on the _Food Network_, because, really, short of starting a meth lab or a crime lab, TV doesn't offer much guidance on things to do when you're a fugitive in the Witness Protection Program.

He stands in the doorway, next to the country-printed wallpaper she never would have picked out and his suit is black and he looks like he has either come from or headed to a funeral and Chloe has an apron on and a casserole in her hands and she's just waiting for the biting remarks to leave his lips.

"I didn't know you cook," he says and it's not what she expected but she almost respects him all the more for it and she hides a smile as she turns her back and sets the burning dish on the counter.

"Despite what you like to believe, you don't know everything about everybody, Lex."

He chuckles, and silence follows.

"Smells good. I haven't eaten since breakfast."

She guesses that's his ways of saying he's going to stay for dinner. She pulls two plates out of the cabinet above her and smiles slowly to herself.

- - -

-

- - -

Apparently, it's habit forming. He appears at her door and Joe continues to answer it and she makes more elaborate dishes, some burnt, some disgusting, and a few she gets just about right. He appears at her door more and more often and she knows as he grimaces around a mouthful of some kind of goulash, it's not because of her cooking.

She's not sure what she's supposed to feel about that. Apprehension seems appropriate and happiness too far out of place.

She washes the dishes, and he stands there, dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up, drying dishes. It's too domestic and it's too normal, and rather than pleased and mushy, it makes her feel a little sick.

She insults him, and he insults back, and the air is clear again.

- - -

-

- - -

One night he kisses her, and she thinks that after the boxes of books and the cartons of DVDs and the cable access and everywhere else, this, this is his way of saying sorry and her kissing him back is her way of saying she forgives him.

She's pretty sure that summer romances or flings or whatever they call them these days aren't supposed to go like this.

- - -

-

- - -

One night he fucks her and she's not sure what that means. She's not sure what it means that she lets him and that when she comes she thinks the word 'forever' and kind of wants to cry.

- - -

-

- - -

The phone feels heavy in her hand and she dials his number without thinking.

He answers on the second ring and his voice is gruff and tired, concerned even. She's not supposed to call unless there are gunmen breaking down the door or the gates to hell are opening in her front yard or the apocalypse itself has fallen down around them, in the shape of meteor rocks or Lionel's henchmen.

There are the usual greetings and the casual small talk, and as the silence sets in and the awkwardness builds, she steadies herself because this, this is something she has to do and this, this is anything but easy.

"You know, it's funny. I knew from the start that if anything were to happen between us, it'd be wildly inappropriate and short-lived. I knew that this wasn't – that it couldn't be – going anywhere, that this was just some giant dead-end heading towards nothing short of a brick wall and the crash was going to hurt like hell. You know exactly what I mean, don't you?"

There is silence on the other end of the phone, and she takes this as an unstated acquiesce.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is, I forgive you in advance. I really didn't expect that much from you. And I got more than I probably deserved." She takes a deep breath, because, really, she's a fool, she's a fool but she's on a roll and there's no point in stopping now because tomorrow is home and he'll be in his office and she'll be in school and things just don't work that way. They're not meant to. She takes a deep breath and barrels forward.

"This has meant more to me than it ever should have. And tomorrow, tomorrow I'm going back to Smallville, which means the summer is over, and our little Danny Zuko, Sandra Dee romance, thing, whatever, is over, but I guess I'll always have this summer to remember it by.

"Think of it, always.

"You really don't need to say anything. I get that. I get you don't do the whole hold-hands-and-talk-about-our-emotions crap the rest of the world does, and that's okay. I'm letting you off the hook, Lex.

"Thank you. And good night."

She hangs up the phone and pretends to sleep.

- - -

-

- - -

It would, of course, end as it had started. There's something wildly poetic about the idea of it all being full circle, and she would tell Lex this, but she remembers that when they started this mess they were awkward and only talked shop and if this is full circle and this is completion, then the two of them are right back where they started from.

And that's anything but nice and friendly and quiet sex on summer nights.

It ends full circle and Chloe thinks poetic justice as the wind rips through her hair.

The house has been emptied out, and the words 'just in time' are exchanged a lot, because just as the van full of the scant belongings she calls her own pulled away, another one came bending around the corner, standing out stark against the plains.

A helicopter was lowered from the sky and there was yelling and eventually gunfire and Chloe's seatbelt was buckled in place.

Joe didn't make it.

Joe has a bullet in his head. There's a bullet and Chloe is riding high above the fluttering grasses and swaying trees, the helicopter chopping out the sounds below.

Chloe gets it. She's riding back to Smallville and back to home and the supposed normalcy she's been missing since the first burst of flame and fire and trouble. She gets it. There aren't supposed to be any straggling remainders of this summer and Joe has a bullet in his brain and anything between her and Lex was already dead on arrival.

She gets it. That doesn't make it any easier.

The ride is longer than she expected, and come to think of it, she never did know which state she was in. Eventually there is an airport and there is a jet and there is her father, waiting for her, and there are hugs and kisses and 'I missed you,' 'I missed you, too,' and as the night begins to fall and the plane taxis and the car ride is long and winding, the giant sign rises out of nowhere and it's nothing she expected.

"Welcome to Smallville."

The corn has grown tall and the sun is too bright, and as the black sedan rolls into their drive, it doesn't feel like home.

- - -

-

- - -


End file.
